The Roast of Eragon Shadeslayer
by Supa Supa Bad Truly Mad Moves
Summary: Before marching upon Galbatorix, the Varden host a no-holds-barred, highly snarky tribute to their hero, Eragon Shadeslayer. Arya, Nasuada, Orik, and others riff on Eragon's less fine points, all in the name of camaraderie.
1. King Orrin

**The Roast of Eragon Shadeslayer**

**Disclaimer: **I have no ownership of the Inheritance series. Nor do I own the concept of a "roast", although despite Comedy Central being known for it I'm pretty sure it's public domain.

It is dusk. A hastily constructed stage has been set up in the city of Feinster, holding six small chairs along its edge and a seventh, resembling a throne, at its center. The entire Varden has gathered around this stage, as the young messenger Jarsha steps up to the podium at the opposite side as the chairs.

"Good evening, lords and ladies of the Varden," Jarsha says, and the enchantment on the podium causes his voice to boom throughout the city. "I welcome you to this special event designed to increase the morale of our people as we march against Galbatorix. It is my great honor to introduce the Varden's Roast of Eragon Shadeslayer!"

Booming applause rings out amongst the onlookers.

"Please welcome our roasters," Jarsha continues. "From the Varden, Lady Nasuada Nightstalker; the Lady Angela; Captain Roran Stronghammer; and Nar Garzhvog. From Farthen Dûr in the Beor Mountains, Grimstnzborith Orik; and from Du Weldenvarden, Arya Dröttningu."

As Jarsha announces each name, the honored guests step forward and take the six chairs opposite him, to thunderous applause.

"And now, please welcome our roastmaster, Surda's own King Orrin!"

Jarsha steps back from the podium and is replaced by King Orrin.

"Welcome!" Orrin proclaims. "We are here tonight to honor a hero, a warrior, an all-around friend to all free people. Please welcome Eragon Shadeslayer!"

From above, a white-blue burst of flame explodes from a cloud. Saphira drops from the sky and sets behind the stage, and Eragon steps onto the stage, waving to the riotous crowd and settling himself into the centered, wooden throne.

"Ah, Eragon," Orrin says graciously. "Wonderful to have you here. A fine name, that. Although, as I've recently been informed, it's pronounced ER-agon, not er-AG-on. I thought it rhymed with dragon, I mean it's spelled the same way… someone back me up on this. No? Hmm.

"As for Shadeslayer… I swear, I can never figure out the meaning of these titles that people get. I assume it means he drives a toboggan beneath shady trees, but… am I wrong again?" Orrin chuckles lightly. "But forgive me… I understand what he has accomplished. It must be immensely difficult to kill a Shade who… has his mind on other things."

Orrin has warmed up the crowd. On each punchline, the Varden laugh and applaud, as do the roasters and Eragon himself.

"I have some advice for our hero of Alagaësia," Orrin continues. "Heed it well! First of all, before embarking on your next big journey, _think_, would you? For like two seconds? At least consider your next move. Secondly, won't you please, please, stop making promises, all the time, to _everyone_? You might not think so, but that's going to lay waste to the entire world. And my final piece of advice… can't you just be blond? Epic heroes are supposed to be blond."

As Eragon laughs appreciatively, Orrin thoughtfully puffs on his pipe, blowing the smoke out of his ear for the audience's enjoyment.

"But in all seriousness," Orrin says. "We can be sure that Eragon Shadeslayer's name and deeds shall be retold by the bards for centuries to come. Let us pray, then, that the bards never get wind of those deeds that illustrate just how stupid the man actually is! Of course, for that to happen, it would mean that no one present here ever spoke to a bard… and that's not going to happen. Eragon Shadeslayer—destined to live on as an idiot!

"And now… by my authority as the King of Surda, I declare that this roast has begun!"

**Up next: Roran Stronghammer**


	2. Roran Stronghammer

"Our first roaster," Orrin says, "is a man whose hobbies include getting flogged, fornicating, and keeping a tally of how many lives he's snuffed out. But that's not the worst part. The worst part is, he's Eragon Shadeslayer's own cousin. Ladies and gentlemen, Roran Stronghammer!"

Roran stands, waving his hammer in greeting to the crowd. He takes the podium, and King Orrin sets down in Roran's empty seat.

"Thank you," Roran says. "Wow! There is no greater pleasure than being a member of the Varden, and especially serving under Lady Nasuada, self-mutilating bossy-boots that she is. Mighty warlord or emo chick? 'Tis a fine line. But certainly, Lady Nasuada, you could teach Galbatorix a thing or two about what it truly means… to hang around in the back and give orders. Top-notch!

"Arya is here, the esteemed representative of the elves here in the Varden. Esteemed. Particularly by Eragon; you're quite the inspiration to him, my lady. He once had feelings for you, it's true, but I believe now he views you more in the light of an elder sister… or perhaps a great-grandmother. I couldn't say for sure.

"Ah, look at you all. Look at the Varden! I have seen many wonders. I've braved the Boar's Eye, I've taken the Ra'zac in their lair. I have even seen and spoken with Jeod, who must certainly be the jowliest man in Alagaësia. Stand up and take a bow, Jeod!"

Jeod waves at him from the crowd.

"And, on to Eragon…" Roran declares. "Oh, Eragon, Eragon—Eragon, you bastard, how the hell are you?" The audience applauds as Roran faces his cousin directly with this boisterous greeting.

"There's nothing I care for more than Eragon," Roran says. "Except, perhaps, my wife and my unborn child. And my nation and lands, preparing for the future. And, fighting for the rights of all free people against mysticism and tyranny. And bacon. Okay, there are a lot of things I care about more than Eragon, but nevertheless—"

Roran holds up a finger to silence the laughing audience. "Eragon," he says solemnly, "is the sort of person who comes to the realization that evil agents of the Empire are killing people he cares about in order to find _him_… and says, 'Damn, I'd better skip town!'" He glares sternly at his cousin. "What's up with that? No! You're supposed to turn yourself in. _That_ is the courteous thing to do."

Roran sighs contentedly and looks over the watching Varden once again. He abruptly turns to Eragon yet again and states, "Why are you so gloomy all the time, Eragon? Is it because you can't grow a beard?" Roran strokes his own clean, trimmed beard in a very posh manner.

"I grew up with Eragon, you know," Roran tells the audience. "We are as brothers, and I have always stood by his side. I was with him for every drinking binge, every hooker, every penis that he spray-painted on road signs…"

The audience laughs as Eragon silently tries to convey that no such things ever happened.

"And I will continue to stand by him," Roran continues, grinning broadly. "Right up until the gates of Urû'baen. Just remember, Eragon, when people start dying around you, turn—yourself—in." Roran pounds the podium to accent each word. "I can't stress that enough; it's vital.

"I love you, coz. Good fighting!"

**Up next: Grimstnzborith Orik**


	3. Grimstnzborith Orik

Orrin takes the stand again. "The next roaster is known as the son of Thrifk. Thrifk, of course, is a dwarven name meaning 'too many consonants'." Orrin grins smugly at his own joke. "He is also the current Grimstnzborith, which means 'so many freaking consonants all in a row it'll drive you crazy'. Please welcome King Orik!"

Orik swaggers up to the podium, taking frequent gulps from a flask of faelnirv. As soon as he is in the range of the podium's enchantment, he belches loudly.

"Ah, yes," Orik proclaims. "On behalf of mine kingdom, I would like to say what an honor it is, to be amongst the Varden! And especially to have my name on the same marquee as Saphira Bjartskular! Lovely creature that she is. I'm proud to say, I'm probably the one person who can share a story about Saphira that includes the words, 'we were so wasted'…"

Saphira grins toothily and bows her head to Orik.

"Now then, who's in the crowd?" Orik asks, scanning the audience. "By the gods, the Ra'zac are still alive! Oh, it's just the Council of Elders. Hey oh!"

Orik chuckles and takes another healthy swig of faelnirv. "But of course, we're here to make fun of Eragon. Eragon is Ingeitum. He is knurla, he is of stone." The audience tenses up, holding their breath in anticipation of the punchline. Finally, Orik bellows, "_SAND_STONE!"

The audience response is underwhelming, and Orik shrugs. "That's a good burn where I grew up. Would have killed in Farthen Dûr. Anyway, back to Eragon… for a guy wearing a belt made out of diamonds, he sure seems to have a lot on his mind."

Eragon laughs.

"You'd think," Orik continues, "that the last free Rider could get laid, but, no. Perhaps you envision many a maiden seeking to turn his head… but again, no. Not happening."

Orik sips more of the elven liqueur. "Now, this being a roast, I'm required to roast him," he says. "But don't get me wrong, I adore Eragon. Everyone here does, there's no one to be denying that. But, at the end of the day, when it comes to young-adult fantasy heroes, I prefer Percy Jackson.

"Thank you, Varden! WHOOOOOOO-HOO!"

**Up next: Lady Nasuada Nightstalker**


	4. Lady Nasuada Nightstalker

"And now," Orrin says, "someone we all know well… appearing before us not as a general, or a warlord, or a queen… but as someone better than everybody else here. Our next roaster, Lady Nasuada Nightstalker!"

Nasuada steps up to the podium, nodding to Eragon as she passes and shaking Orrin's hand before taking the position.

"Thank you, Orrin," Nasuada says. "You know, many has been the time I've considered, for the good of my people, arranging a marriage of convenience with Orrin here. But I've been forced to conclude that Orrin isn't the marrying type, if you know what I mean." She smirks. "Big on natural philosophy _and_ musical theater."

Nasuada scans the crowd. "Ah, to see the Varden gathered 'round. I love every one of you, you're all like my babies… I think my genuine feelings for you can only be conveyed by a tradition Urgal salutation, let me see if I remember how it goes… ah, yes…"

And she gives a prolonged, continuous bellow. The audience laughs with shock, and Nasuada cracks another smile.

"Did I get that right?" she mutters. "Oh, gods… well, let's see… Angela is here." She eyes the herbalist for a moment. "Hey, don't look at me, I didn't invite her."

Angela laughs along with the other roasters. "Nobody invites her anywhere, do they?" Nasuada muses. "And yet, she's always… _there_."

Nasuada continues looking around. "Let's see, whose honor haven't I besmirched? Ah, Stronghammer!" She laughs. "I've taken a knife to your balls a time or two, eh? Ah, I know there are no hard feelings… because if there were, I'd have to hang you. It's what I do!

"Yep. Ah, I've got a nice job. You think changing the world is an easy job? It's not an easy job. And the man of the hour here, Eragon… he and his general bloodline, that being Roran and the traitor Murtagh… the sexy, sexy traitor Murtagh… but honestly, dealing with that blood, never have I more had to suppress the urge to say 'No he di-in't'!

"Eragon, for crying out loud… how high do you have to be, to make half the screw-ups…?" She laughs, lifting a hand hopelessly. "And Saphira doesn't help. You want to fly higher than the Beor Mountains? Sure! Saphira, this tree won't speak to us. Well, let's beat it up!"

She glares humorously at Eragon. "I hear things. You think I didn't know about that? I knew. Ah… but truly, my people, there's nothing I can say about Eragon that hasn't already been said about a litter of kittens you find under the stairs."

She looks around at the audience. "It's a fine comparison. It is! Soft, cute, can't walk by himself, you kind of wish you'd never found him, but now you can't ignore him and you can't, in good conscience, drown him—! I'm sorry."

Nasuada buries her face in one hand. "I'm sorry. I'm on edge, you know. I'll be better when the war is over and I don't have to talk to you people anymore. So, let's see this campaign through to the end, yes? Let's finish this. Long live Eragon Shadeslayer!"

**Up next: Nar Garzhvog**


	5. Nar Garzhvog

"Thank you, Lady Nasuada," King Orrin says. "And at this point, I'm sure most of you have been wondering about a certain presence onstage here. Who, you ask, is the gray-skinned creature with muscles like stone and curled horns with which it menaces the populace? Well, that's my mother-in-law. _Ba-dum-bum-chhhh_… seriously though, please welcome to the podium our next roaster—Nar Garzhvog!"

The mighty Kull gets to his feet and pounds Orrin on the shoulder as he takes the podium. The crowd's applause is uncertain, and as the nar gazes out at the crowd, they fall into an uneasy silence.

"Ah, yes…" Nar Garzhvog hisses through his teeth. "Here we are, all of the races of Alagaësia gathered as one. I would like to thank Lady Nightstalker for her hospitality… and for the routine she just performed. Surely, my lady, more people want to assassinate you now than ever before. You make sure my rams have work to do, yes indeed…

"My colleague Yarbog recently tried to take over yet another platoon. No one cares anymore, my friend. Your antics are old news. And, among our number here in Feinster, we have thirteen elves… ah, there they are. Have you even time to watch the roast? Shouldn't you be getting the reindeer ready? _Ruk-ruk-ruk_…"

Arya applauds at this joke, and the crowd's tension is quickly eased.

"I accepted my invitation to the stage tonight," Garzhvog continues, "because like so many others, I have words for our roastee. He is the last of his ancient order. He is the single hope against the Empire. He is the man with the pale blue sword of glowing fire… a man by the name of Skywalker—I mean, Shadeslayer! I am sorry. Of course I meant Shadeslayer, I don't know why I said… the other thing… forgive my error."

Garzhvog _ruk-ruk_s again. "My people, always, have called him Firesword, and now he has had a new weapon made which he calls Fire. 'Tis fitting that things come full circle." Garzhvog eyes Brisingr belted to Eragon's waist. "There's nothing quite as phallic as a sword, is there, Shadeslayer? _Ruk-ruk_. Nothing else that makes one feel more like a ram… or, a 'man', as I've been told human males call themselves. Whatever.

"But setting it ablaze? 'Tis a bit obvious, is it not, Shadeslayer? It seems that King Orrin is not the only one of Lady Nightstalker's potential mates who is… flamboyant."

Eragon laughs, and Orrin scowls at Garzhvog over the second such joke made at his expense.

"The Rider is good at what he does," Garzhvog continues. "What he does, of course, is kill people. All kinds of people. We've all done so. Who are these people we've killed? What did they want to do with their lives? Hell, we don't care. We fight for liberty! …Or so I've heard. What _is_ liberty? I've never truly been clear on that…

"Aaaagh… moving along." Nar Garzhvog holds his head up high. "I bare my throat to you, Firesword. Best of luck in the upcoming campaign and all your future endeavors. May you one day find a suitable brood mate! Talk to me after the roast, I know some girls. _Ruk-ruk_… and similar blessings to all the Varden, whom, if nothing else, can put on a most excellent roast! Thank you all!"

**Up next: Arya Dröttningu**


	6. Arya Dröttningu

Orrin looks over a stack of cards that he has pulled from his pockets. "Okay, our next, truly epic roaster is… ah, yes, it's Arya Dröttningu. That, of course, is a name in the ancient language meaning… meaning, um…" He continues to look over the cards, shuffling them until he has found the right one.

"Ah, yes, Arya Dröttningu, which is the ancient language for 'Dröttningu Arya'… well, that can't be right. Let me… okay, it means she's a Princess Dröttningu… or, Dröttningu Princess… anyway, she's Princess Arya Dröttningu. Dröttningu Arya Princess? Damnation…" Orrin tears through the cards, squinting at each one in turn. "Well, she's Arya, anyway. Arya is a rather common elven name, roughly the equivalent of the human Mary S—eh? What's that?"

Orrin turns, to see that Arya has approached the podium and is staring at him expectantly.

"Ah… yes," Orrin mutters, pocketing the cards. "Over to you then… Drött—well, _you_."

Orrin shuffles aside and Arya takes the podium. "Thank you. King Orrin, everybody!

"Well, most of you know who I am. I have served among the Varden for some seventy years now… so, you know… you're welcome, I guess."

Arya waves a hand. "I kid, of course. I feel honored to be among such fine folk… although, I liked my old job better, just ferrying an egg back and forth across the continent. Things have changed now. There's a lot of dying in this job. I'm thinking about going back to what I did before.

"Hmm… well, Eragon is here. I recently spent some time on the road with Eragon." She ponders, sneaking occasional glances at him. "You can imagine that was fun. On foot in the mud and the dust, alone with this sixteen-year-old kid, walking beside him, sleeping next to him, and this entire time I'm wearing quote-unquote 'women's clothing'… yeah. Not an enjoyable period to think about. But our hero needs rest, of course, and if the mental image of those days is what gets him to sleep at night…"

The crowd breaks out laughing and Arya rubs her temples nervously. "_Barzûl_, that's the filthiest thing I've ever said. Back it down a bit, Dröttningu… moving on, then."

She coughs. "Well, as we've known for some time, Eragon's mother was Selena, the Black Hand, deadliest of assassins. I guess it follows logically, then, that his father would be Brom… the most colossal of asses.

"And Eragon brought Brisingr along, I see… custom-built to his specifications as a hand-and-a-half sword. I could point out that, in the weapons trade, a hand-and-a-half sword is also called a bastard sword, but that seems too obvious even for _this_ crowd."

Arya throws back her head and laughs. "Yeah, eat it, crowd! Now then, Eragon… I love you dearly, you should know. Charming, handsome, one of the greatest humans I've ever known."

Eragon beams at her, and she retorts, "Keep your ideas in your pocket, punk. We're still just friends. Best wishes to Eragon and all the Varden—back to you, King Orrin!"

**Up next: Saphira Bjartskular**


	7. Saphira Bjartskular

"Coming up," Orrin says, "is somebody who I'm going to refrain from mocking for fear that she will, quite literally, roast me—that, of course, is Saphira Bjartskular!"

Orrin takes his seat as Saphira rears up onto her hind legs and climbs halfway onto the stage. Gazing over the crowd intently, she broadcasts her voice out for all to hear.

_Greetings, tasty morsels… I mean, people of the Varden,_ she amends hastily. _Glad, I am, that we are on the march. Finally! Another second of political intrigue and I'd have started stabbing people in the jaws._

_You two-legs are so petty. All your careers and property, when we all know what truly matters—that you're all fated to be torn apart and eaten by dragons._

_And, before you ask, yes, all of my jokes are about killing you. I deal only in dismemberment and digestion-related punchlines._

Saphira inhales deeply and peacefully. _On to Eragon. As his dragon, I spend much of my time inhabiting Eragon's mind. As you may have gathered from some of the other jokes this evening, that's not very impressive. Mostly he wonders what people look like naked. And hot damn, he thinks about yogurt a lot._

The audience laughs and Eragon can distinctly be seen mouthing the word "What?"

_Eragon… what can I say about Eragon? My hormone levels are dropping just by looking at him. There'll be no repopulating the species while he's lurking around in my consciousness. And listening to him is brushing shards off my intelligence levels even as we speak._

_And yet, Eragon will always hold a special place in my heart, and in my heart of hearts. And in my lungs, liver, and pancreas, incidentally. And also, I would just like to reiterate, if you exist, Eragon has mentally undressed you._

_Farewell, sheep! People. Sheeple. Whatever the hell you are. I'm out of here—peace!_

**Up next: Angela**


	8. Angela

"Our final roaster for this evening," Orrin says, "needs no introduction… unless you want to know who she is. Join me in welcoming the very funny, the very clever, might change the course of this entire war if we could only figure out what the frack she's talking about, _Angelaaaaaa!_"

"How y'all doin' tonight!" Angela roars into the podium.

The crowd is boisterous, most of them familiar with the eccentric herbalist.

"You doin' good? Great! _Sé onr sverdar sitja hvass_, bitches! Yeah! King Orrin. You're as gay as all hell, aren't you? King Orrin, not only a monarch but a scientist! He recently proved the existence of a vacuum, or nothingness, a feat he accomplished by examining the inside of his own head—bazinga!

"Arya Dröttningu is kind of hanging out around here. Hey there… whatcha up to? Making fun of people for their ancestral beliefs? You racist bitch. Hey, whatever gods turn out to be real, everybody's gonna get _some_ afterlife cred for devoutness. Not the elves. They believe nothin'. Yeah, you die, you're gonna be all like 'Oh, hey… so, can we unravel the secrets of _this_ universe?', and the gods are gonna go, 'Nope, it's hell for you'.

"Or, alternatively, what if the gods are all giant chickens, and all of the races, for eating the true children of the earth, will be punished. Then the elves won't look so stupid; veganism may or may not come at the price of eternal torment. We don't know."

Angela stares off into space for a while. "What was I saying? Oh yes. Um… well, Nar Garzhvog is here, representing the entire Urgal race. Good for him. Narrrrr Garrrrrzhvog. Were you born on Talk Like a Pirate Day, or what?

"Now, onto the evening's business. Eragon Shadeslayer… is a worthless piece of frog vomit. Fuck him."

The entire audience whoops it up.

"That's right," Angela says. "Guy can't fence, can't use the subtleties of magic. He can write an epic poem, that's fine, they all suck anyway, but hell, that's not gonna do us any good! We're not gonna kill Galbatorix with poetry. The guy can't do a damn thing in this world, so what makes him so special—? Oh, that's right, he's got a dragon." She winks at Saphira. "You're all right, blue stuff! I've got no issues there.

"But Eragon? Heh heh… _Barzûln_ on you, you smelly _drajl_ ape-man! May you leave Alagaësia and never return." Angela looks at the audience. "He's gonna, you know. What? It's inevitable. Pity the poor woman who leaves with him! Ha ha. Ewwww.

"But for the present time, this schmuck—that's Yiddish, no longer spoken on Alagaësia, just a piece of trivia there—this schmuck, who needs eighteen or nineteen people standing behind him at all times to do the simplest of tasks, is our last hope against Galbatorix. I'm putting down fifty G's on Galbatorix. Any takers?"

Angela raises her staff. "That's my time! _Atra esterní ono thelduin_, motherfuckers! Goodnight!"

**Up next: Eragon Shadeslayer**


	9. Eragon Shadeslayer

Orrin steps back up, still chuckling. "Thank you, Lady Angela," he says. "And now, this is my favorite part of a roast. The part where the man of the hour comes up here to… get back at the rest of us. Ladies and gentlemen, the tiger-blooded warlock himself, Eragon Shadeslayer!"

And so it is. Eragon leaps off his throne, shakes hands with Orrin, and takes the podium, to the most deafening round of applause yet.

"Thank you!" Eragon calls out. "Thank you, everyone! Wow, what a wonderful evening. Truly. I have never been so honored as I am right now." Someone whoops, and Eragon nods politely.

"So, Angela," Eragon says. "They saved you for last. That was a bit anti-climactic, eh? Your experiments will change the world, I'm sure. Discovering if toads are, in fact, frogs. I'm sure that's important, but I wonder, have you given any thought to, say, curing diseases? Seems like something we ought to look into, yeah?"

The man of the hour scratches an itch absently. "And Roran! Roran, my brother, loved your routine. You've still got it. And by 'it', I mean that ridiculous, smelly clump of hair on your face. Come on, dude.

"And my other brother, Orik. Interesting; he is Grimstnzborith, and also the chief of the Ingeitum. His grimstcarvlorss at the Ingeitum, who handles all of the clan's business, is also his wife—meaning, for those of you not well-versed in that particular culture, that Orik is about as whipped as a knurlag could possibly be. _Werg_, man. _Werg_. I dread the day when Orik comes up to me and says, 'Oh, Eragon, mine brother, the old battle-ax is castrating me'… I especially fear it because I'll have no way of knowing if he's talking about his wife, or if he's speaking literally on account of the actual battle-ax that he wears around his damned waist… wow."

Orik applauds.

"Delicate set-up, there," Eragon says, shrugging. "And Arya Svit-kona—you know, you're just plain _mean_. I think I liked you better when you were in a coma! I'd like it if you still were… because then I might have gotten somewhere with you by now. Hello! And _that_ is a dirty joke. Not that prudish crap you came out with, Dröttningu."

Eragon laughs. "And we come to Saphira… partner of my mind and heart, Saphira. You horny bitch, with your overprotective nonsense, your killing people, your random blasts of magic and your stupid-phrases-connected-by-a-bunch-of-hyphens. Of all the nonsensical things in this, our universe… you're definitely the least well thought out.

"But why am I talking about you guys? This night is for me! Me, baby, me. Yeah, come on. Give me some love. You're all out here, finally fighting and dying in the open, getting your names and deeds recognized, for me. You travel across the continent to unseat the evil power, and you do it because I have given you faith! And now, eight of you have stood up here to insult each other and subtly lean on the fourth wall—all in my name! And I am honored.

"Let's face it, I'm not blessed with the greatest amount of common sense around here. But I have figured out why I'm here, what my purpose is in life. I'm here so when I stand next to all of _you_ one-note schnooks, you look damn near perfect by comparison!"

The audience applauds, as do the roasters in their chairs.

"Yeah, that's right," Eragon says. "You know, I've accomplished a lot. I've seen every possible culture in Alagaësia. I've discovered secrets of the universe previously unprobed. I've fought beside the greatest people our world has to offer. And, yes, during all this I've somehow found the time to unleash an evil baby upon the world! Hi, Elva. Heh heh… please don't kill me.

"And yet, with all that I've done, all that I've seen, there's nothing in my life more special than the fact that I can say that I have been roasted! So, thank you so much, lords and ladies of the Varden, of Du Weldenvarden, of Farthen Dûr—all free people and goodly folk of Alagaësia! Tomorrow, we set off for Urû'baen, to topple Galbatorix from his throne, to avenge the dragons and the Riders for all the injustice the mad king placed upon them! Join me, my friends and family, as we—make—history!"

The crowd roars their loudest yet, and Saphira joins in. Their spirits lifted, the Varden prepare for their final march…

**The End**


End file.
